


Burnt

by MintJam



Series: Live a lie [15]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Figging, M/M, of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23543749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: God knows how long Polly had been standing at the front window—like a spider waiting to ambush its prey—all black silk and dark eyes, a thread of smoke rising slowly from her fingers. Tommy had opened the front door and walked straight into her web.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: Live a lie [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1410712
Comments: 126
Kudos: 250





	1. Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> Follows on immediately from Revelations, so please read that first for context. To recap, the Shelbys now know about Tommy and Alfie's relationship. It's caused a lot of conflicting feelings. Tommy and co have retrenched to Small Heath to deal with the threat from Luca Changretta. 
> 
> *Does not strictly follow canon*

Tommy looks around the cramped Watery Lane parlour and feels overwhelmingly claustrophobic; like he has done every day for the past four weeks. There's no doubt this was the safest way to face the Changretta threat—as a family, together, in Small Heath—but that doesn't make the reality of the situation any easier to live with. He's been up all night again, walking the towpath to ease his nervous energy; too bad his legs always tire long before his mind. He spent the last few hours of the night in the company of the gin stills, before finally forcing himself back to the house. He'd planned to creep up the stairs to his old room and lay down with Charlie for an hour, try to absorb some of that restful contentment by osmosis. Instead he'd been cornered by Polly. God knows how long she'd been standing at the front window—like a spider waiting to ambush its prey—all black silk and dark eyes, a thread of smoke rising slowly from her fingers. He'd opened the front door and walked straight into her web. 

"We need to talk," she says, when he's still removing his cap. She has a look of razor-sharp focus entirely unbefitting of the hour.

Tommy sighs deeply. "It's half five in the morning, Pol." 

"Which means we're alone. Sit down."

He could ignore her and walk straight up the stairs, but the jut of her chin tells him this isn't going to go away. He may as well get it over with. He slumps into the armchair in the corner and pulls out his cigarette case.

"Not sleeping, I see," she starts.

He doesn't answer. Not that it's even a question, more a statement of fact. They've circled each other at a distance for the past month, speaking only when they have to because of business or threat. Polly hasn't mentioned Alfie since that fateful morning in Arrow House, when she'd cornered him after breakfast and laid out her very clear views. He'd reacted so badly to her proposal that he had hoped that would be the end of it, but looking at her now, he knows what's coming.

"You're not good on your own, Thomas. You think you are, but you're not. Never were."

He resigns himself to the inevitable and takes a long slow breath. "I'm not on my own. As you damn well know."

"You've been under a lot of strain these past months," she says. "Maybe I underestimated it."

He snorts a humourless laugh at that. Polly's never been one for sympathy; this is definitely a strategy.

"We do strange things when we're not thinking straight. You needed someone, and he was there." She says it with absolute certainty; like she's given it considerable thought and this is the only conceivable explanation. Tommy feels anger rolling low down in his belly. He needs to keep his calm, the last thing he wants is to alert the rest of the family to this discussion.

"I don't _need_ someone, Pol. I—" 

"Too right you don't," she snaps. "You need Arthur and John and Finn and Ada. You need _family,_ Tommy. _Kin_."

He stares at her intently as she worries her lip between finger and thumb. He's not going to say it out loud, but it's Polly, she knows anyway.

"I don't _need_ Alfie, I w—"

"Oh fucking hell, Thomas, this can't continue. It cannot!"

"No such thing as _can't_ , Pol. I think we've proved that much for ourselves."

She scoffs at him in response. "You're not that naive. You think an OBE, is going to protect you from this? From the Italians? From every black-mailing, muck-seeking low-life that's out there? I _know_ you, Tommy. You have ambitions. You're not gonna stop."

"I don't need to be fucking protected," Tommy spits. 

"Oh, I wish that were true. Believe me I do. You need to be protected from _him_."

"He has a name."

"And a reputation. And a history of double-crossing you." She stares at him with blazing condescension as she stabs out her cigarette in the ashtray on the mantlepiece. When it's good and dead she continues.

"You're cunning in all things except matters of the heart. And don't think I don't know it's your heart we're talking about here."

Tommy leans forward and rests his forearms on his knees, slowly taking a cigarette from its case and lighting it. No one has mentioned Alfie since they got to Small Heath (no one but Ada, that is). It's as if the family meeting at Arrow House never happened at all. Like they're all pretending that Tommy's moved on, that Alfie was just a troublesome flare, easily extinguished by distance and this fragile Shelby truce.

Except that Polly isn't so easily fooled; she's just been biding her time. He needs to shut this down. When he looks up she's staring at him with one eyebrow cocked, as if to say _I'm right_. It throws him momentarily, but he has to make this clear. He points at her with the two fingers that hold his cigarette, using them to reinforce his words:

"If you are going to tell me to marry Lizzie again, Pol, I swear to god... "

"You know it makes sense. I'm not saying it'll be easy... but you'll get over him. You got over Greta. You got over Grace."

"I didn't _choose_ to lose Greta. I didn't _choose_ to lose Grace." 

"And maybe you won't _choose_ to lose him. Maybe he'll choose to lose you."

The words resonate almost physically and he surges to his feet. Polly looks unpeturbed.

"You can wait until he betrays you, Thomas. Or until someone else betrays you. Or you can do this on your own terms."

It's not like he can't see the logic of her words. It's precisely bepcause he _can_ see it that the shuddering starts; imperceptible to anyone else, but shaking him nonetheless. If he'd been at home he'd have fled into the wide-open air, taken a horse and galloped away from the words and all their implications.

But he's not. He's trapped in this tiny house with a dozen other people sleeping only inches away and everything is shrinking around him—the nicotine-stained wallpaper, the old photographs, the heavily-patterned rugs. 

"This is who you really are, Thomas. This. Right here. Us."

Dawn is barely winking at the rooftops as she glides out of the room, leaving him mute and furious by the unlit fire. He feels like a tuning fork that's been struck, every molecule of air around him vibrating infinitesimally from the impact of her words. 

***

He grinds his way through another day that passes much like every other since they decamped to Small Heath: in a buzz of noise and activity. The factories don't cease production because of a vendetta. The unions don't stop causing trouble. Contracts don't end; imports and exports don't halt at the borders (unless they're impounded) and Tommy, of course, doesn't stop. He'll be damned if he's going to see ten years worth of hard work go to hell because of these bloody Italians. He's so used to managing all of it personally that the reappearance of Polly and Arthur and John in company life has minimal positive impact. Not that he isn't grateful to have them, he's missed his brothers more than he allowed himself to admit, but their presence necessitates more thinking, more work, more control. Arthur is keen to prove himself, which is both blessing and curse. Polly is spiky and difficult, but invested again, at least.

As for the living conditions... abject chaos is the only way to describe them. There are children everywhere: running through the shop, setting up camps in the offices, sleeping under the stairs. There's arguing and shouting and making up—adults and kids alike—it's no wonder Charlie was terrified when they first arrived. Most of the time Tommy doesn't mind the chaos; it's all just another set of inputs that rattles around his head. There's something comforting, if infuriating, about living cheek by jowl with his family again; the familiar fights and annoyances; the frustration of sharing one outside lav; the almost constant bickering over food and cooking and the rare moments of precious silence when a meal is served and everyone shuts up, briefly, to eat it. 

When it all stops though, when it's late at night and the Garrison's closed and everyone's gone to bed, that's when Tommy allows his thoughts to return to Alfie. He'll sit at the desk in his dingy office and nurse the ache of missing him. Pathetic really, given how they parted. It was the family meeting that did it, Tommy is fairly sure. Alfie had been so distant and offish afterwards, not that Tommy could blame him; it's one thing having a secret arrangement, but quite another when a large, hostile family makes itself part of the deal. There have to be far easier fucks to find, and ones that aren't stuck three hours from London.

It's gone midnight when he picks up the phone in his office and dials Camden. Alfie'll be grumpy as sin if he has to get out of bed to answer, but Tommy's had half a bottle of whiskey and really doesn't care. He misses their conversations; the exchange of opinions on everything from politics to the merits of cows; the elaborate but carefully constructed tangents, designed to intimidate and confuse, that only ever make Tommy smile (not that he'll admit it). So he'll take thirty seconds of bitching and grumbling about the lateness of the hour as long as he hears that voice. Who knows, it might even be enough to help him sleep

But tonight the phone rings and rings and rings and Alfie doesn't answer and Tommy doesn't hang up. Instead he leans back in his chair and listens to the shrill tone vibrating against his eardrum; imagines it disturbing the peace in another room two hundred miles away, and wonders if there's another eardrum against which it is vibrating or only empty walls. He's not sure which image is more painful; the one of Alfie ignoring him or the one of him not there at all. He counts thirty rings before the line drops and he's left alone with the silence. 

***

The next day he struggles to concentrate. When Lizzie walks into his office with a stack of papers he finds himself analysing every word and glance. Does she know about Polly's proposal? Have the pair of them discussed it already? He doesn't doubt that she could be talked into it, not that that makes him feel good.

"You look like shit, Tom," she says as she turns to collect his mail. 

He just glances up through his eyebrows and glares until she leaves with a click of her tongue and a shake of her head.

He can't help but think about all the times he's slept with her. All those miserable, numbing fucks that left him briefly sated, but ultimately unsatisfied. His life would be so much simpler if sex with Alfie was like that; if it wasn't like being thrown off a cliff and saved at the same time—intimate and terrifying and addictive. But then that last night in bed had been different: Alfie had been rough as fuck (not that Tommy didn't enjoy it, it was just _a lot_ ). And the following night's blow-job had been dismal. Every time Tommy thinks of it—which is far too fucking often—he feels humiliated. He'd been so desperate to reassure Alfie that he must have looked fucking pathetic... on his knees... trying too hard to please... like Lizzie has looked so many times in the past. He's always hated her for it. No wonder Alfie lost his hard-on and disappeared—so keen to get away he'd rather sleep in a shitty bed in some grubby pub with rooms than stay another night. And instead of taking the fucking hint, Tommy keeps coming up with excuses to talk: the gin; the fight with Bonnie; checking up on Sabini (even though they both know full well that Tommy has his own sources). 

Maybe Polly's right. Maybe Alfie will choose to leave. Maybe he's already chosen.

Tommy busies himself for the rest of the morning to drown out the introversion. Arthur calls by at lunchtime and drags him to the Garrison to talk strategy. They end up drinking more than they should so he's nicely buzzed when the phone rings later that afternoon, and entirely unprepared for the caller. 

"Tommy!" says the familiar voice, in exaggerated good-cheer.

"Alfie," he replies, choking on the flash of excitement that's erupted in his chest.

"Everything alright, mate?" Alfie asks.

"Alfie," he starts. "Alfie I—" but it feels like something's burning inside him and it takes away the words. He rubs at his eyes and lights a cigarette instead, waiting for Alfie to fill the void with sentences, like he always has. After a lengthy pause the voice from London continues.

"What botanicals you using, mate?" 

Tommy doesn't answer. He's so tired.

"Let me guess... rosemary? Lemon zest?"

Tommy gives a desultory sniff, because Alfie's fucking _right_. It's infuriating and impressive and it makes him miss him more.

"I knew it. Too predictable. Too bitter. I told you, Tommy, the Americans want it _sweeter."_

"You haven't even tasted it, Alfie."

"Nah, but I can tell, can't I?"

"Almond," Tommy adds.

"Not bad. But you want something warmer. Liquorice root maybe. Cardamon. Ginger."

"Why don't you come and taste it, eh?"

This time it's Alfie who pauses. "Nah..." he says after an awkward interlude. "It's... Birmingham, mate."

"Why not?"

"I could give you a thousand and five reasons why not."

"Gimme one."

"Because you're fuckin' pissed."

He opens his draw when he's put the phone down and pulls out a small, black box. Inside is a gold signet ring in the shape of a skylark. He had it commissioned weeks ago, after they first used the safeword. He'd planned to give it to Alfie that weekend in Warwickshire, but after the family meeting and the strained breakfast and Polly's subsequent words, the mood just hadn't been right. Two tiny sapphire eyes stare back at him from inside the velvet box; it looks too vulnerable anyway, too delicate for Alfie's hands. Perhaps he should give it to Ada.

***

He wears one of Alfie's shirts that night, when he finally makes it to bed; it makes him feel strangely nostalgic, like he's already looking back. He's an idiot for expecting Alfie to consider coming to Small Heath; he should never have brought it up. Alfie's barely called since he's been here and now Tommy's fucked it up. The distance between them feels more significant than miles and weeks. When he _does_ close his eyes it's his aunt's words that haunt him—damn Polly and her premonitions and proposals—every molecule of air around him vibrates whenever he stops moving.

Charlie sleeps peacefully beside him, like he hasn't a care in the world. Tommy wraps one arm around him and stares at the dingy wallpaper until his lids begin to close. The ache that is there when he lets himself think of Alfie only grows at night, when all of his reason and logic deserts him and he finally lets himself _want_. Why shouldn't he have family _and_ Alfie? Is it really too much to ask? He doesn't want to be forced to choose... either loss would be an amputation; ugly and painful.

"I want honey," are the words that wake him, spoken by a small but determined bundle of limbs that's squirming in his heavy arms. The smell of burnt toast wafts up the stairs.

"Go see what Esme and Pol have got, eh?" Tommy says to his son.

"Did you really grow up here, Dad?"

"Yes, Charlie. I really grew up here."

"Will we go back home?"

"Yeah, we will. D'you miss it?"

"I miss the horses. And Alfie Bear sometimes."

"Me too, Charlie," he says with a sigh.

"Will Alfie come when we go home?"

Tommy wishes he knew the answer to that question.

"I hope he does, Dad."

But hope doesn't beget reactions, does it? Only actions do that. Tommy sends the ring. 


	2. Rooks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he's surprised to find Alfie here, in his own back yard, then he schools his features quickly. Everything about Tommy looks so familiar, and yet... not. The setting changes everything. It's like finding the kid you befriended in the school holidays unexpectedly in class on the first day of term. Neither of you needs to say it, but you both know the rules have changed; that the friendship you nurtured in the humid, lawless days of summer is unacceptable here.

Alfie has done a lot of thinking these past few weeks. About what he wants and what he doesn't. About what is important and what is sheer, contemptible hubris. About life and lust and longing and, yeah, about Thomas fucking Shelby OBE.

He kept that quiet, didn't he? Arrogant little shit—Alfie only found out when the latest Shelby Company invoice arrived on new letterhead. He'd smiled despite himself. How a man with no birth certificate—and more contempt for the English establishment than the entire Irish Republican Army—has come to be awarded an Order of the British Empire, he does not even want to know. Actually, that's not entirely true. He'd _love_ to know how the bastard managed it, but he is absolutely _never_ gonna ask; the very fact that he is even intrigued is irritating as fuck. That's what he tells himself anyway. And what he'll tell Tommy—if he ever gets to speak to him again.

Contact has been random and infrequent these past few weeks, ever since the Italian situation had the Shelbys scurrying back to Small Heath like rats to a sewer. It's Tommy who instigates the calls, generally late at night, generally when he's pissed. He tends to say very little, just hangs on the line like Alfie rang _him_. When he hears that distinctive voice, Alfie vacillates between ferocious possessiveness—rage at the injustice of Tommy being holed up with those undeserving _bastards_ he calls family, all happily flocking around their leader now that they _need_ something from him—and a distant melancholia so visceral it's more like a premonition; an acute and stabbing realisation that the best is already behind him. Invariably he puts the phone down thinking that he ought to cut his losses. Retire. Accept his fate. It's a war between passion and self-preservation and either prospect is terrifying.

Alfie should probably get over himself and instigate some of the calls. It's not like Tommy hasn't made sure there are reasons: the gin venture for starters (mad bastard clearly ain't sleeping if he has time for that) and now there's a fight to fix too, between Goliath and whichever gypsy-bastard-with-a-death-wish Tommy's found to face him. He seems to have decided that a fleet of Sicillians on his tail ain't excitement enough. Alfie should call to arrange the bout if nothing else. But yet again, he doesn't. Instead he spends all afternoon stealing glances at the phone like it's a stray cat watching him. He knows that picking it up and saying the right words into it: _I'm sorry... I miss you..._ might make him feel better, but he's too much of a coward to risk getting scrammed or hissed at by whoever might answer. 

It's gone eleven that night when the damn thing yowls to life, the ringing too loud in the empty bakery, scaring him half out of his wits. He's taken to working all hours of late; there's a lot going on. And besides, the house feels uninviting—he can't be bothered to light the fires (Tommy's the one who feels the cold, ain't he?) and the sheets smell of nothing much at all, just laundry soap and Alfie's own sweat—what's the fuckin' point? 

Alfie lets it ring, and ring, and ring, eyeing it until he can't help but admire the persistence and has to pick it up. Passion over self-preservation it is then.

"Why aren't you at home?" says a whiskey-laced voice. 

"Busy, Thomas, ain't I?" he says with feigned irritation. A little too much irritation as it happens, because he's met with a sulking silence. Sensitive fucking bastard. Alfie pulls at his beard. 

"Right. Sorry to disturb. I'll leave you to— "

"Glad to hear that you haven't succumbed to any nasty Italian viruses," Alfie snaps.

"No. I'm still in the land of the living."

"Hmm. Matter of opinion that. From what I've heard, Small Heath has about as much in common with the land of the living as the fuckin' underworld." 

There's an audible snort at the other end of the line before he hears the clink of Tommy's lighter and the suck-crackle of a cigarette being lit. He can't help but picture Tommy's mouth with frightening clarity. If you'd told Alfie a year ago that any man could put his cock in Tommy Shelby's mouth and _not_ come he'd have told you that that man must be stone cold dead. Which must make Alfie a corpse. Because he'd let those too-soft lips close around him, hadn't he? Watched those too-blue eyes water up; felt that too-eager throat swallow him down and gag with the effort of trying and yet... felt his cock shrivel until it was a pale, withered slug of a thing. It had made him feel like an old man. Diminished. An affront to the beauty before him. Which is how he's been feeling ever since.

He hadn't handled it well. He'd let pride and rage eat him up; started a stupid argument in the face of Tommy's obvious agitation and yelled that he wasn't some fucking _pet_ to be paraded in front of the Shelby family. He'd left for London at ten o'clock that night, despite Tommy's protests, but only made it a few miles down the road before he'd stopped at a nameless pub to lick his wounds and stay the night; back sore and ego battered. It was fucking pathetic. Tommy would know he hadn't made it far. But Tommy could go fuck himself as far as Alfie was concerned that night.

"S'darker here," Tommy says, dragging Alfie back to the present.

"You what?"

"S'darker. Than the underworld." Tommy's voice is so low Alfie struggles to pick it up. He sounds tired, Alfie thinks, even more so than usual. A familiar melancholy trickles down his spine.

"Sheol, we call it. Deep, dark pit of the forgotten."

There's a lengthy pause. "And am I?" Tommy asks. "Forgotten?"

"Get some fucking sleep, Tom," Alfie says, and hangs up.

***

That night he dreams of snow. He's trudging through fields and fields of it, freezing his tits off, and the wide-open skies above him are laden with yet more of the stuff, just waiting to dump it on his head. He doesn't have his hat or his scarf or his coat with him, just a baggy old shirt and leaking boots and he's cold... so _fucking_ cold he can't think of anything else. He doesn't know where he's going or why, but he keeps moving forwards because that's what you do, right?

And then a small bird calls to him from a nearby tree. It tells him it will sing the most beautiful song he has ever heard, if he can give it three good reasons. "I don't care how beautifully you can sing," Alfie says. "A song ain't gonna keep me warm, now, is it?"

"That's what you think," says the bird. "How will you know if you don't try?"

Alfie shrugs irritably and the bird starts to sing and it is the most beautiful sound he has ever heard.

Its voice fills the great grey sky above him and melts into his ears and it's like wings beating in his chest, like claws lifting him up, like hot breath on his frozen face; the most serene and warming sound he's ever heard in his life.

And then it stops.

"Three good reasons," says the bird. And now Alfie is _invested_ , isn't he? Now he knows how beautiful the bird sounds and he fucking _wants_ it to sing—damn it to hell and back—wants it to sing more than he wants his hat or his coat or the snow to stop falling. It'll probably be the fuckin' death of him, but he starts to wrack his brain for three good reasons nonetheless.

"Because I was wrong," he starts. "I underestimated you. Your song is worth listening to. And that, _that_ is a rare thing my friend." He pauses to think, listening to the wind howl across the flat landscape.

"And?" Says the bird.

"And because I don't know where I'm going, but if I'm meant to die out here, then I would rather do so listening to you." 

The little bird cocks its head. "One more?" says the bird.

Alfie's heart sinks. He can't think of any other reason that the bird should sing for him. It's not like he can offer anything in return, is it? "I... I can't think of another," he says sadly. "S'alright. I don't deserve it anyway. I'll be off." 

Just as he starts to move his feet again, the little bird starts to sing. And its voice is far too impressive for its tiny size, ain't it? It sounds so pretty and fills so much space at the same time that it must carry flat across the horizon in every direction. No sooner has he finished that thought, than a clamour of rooks swoops down out of nowhere and surrounds the lonely tree. Their calls are so raucous and deafening that Alfie can't hear the song anymore. He reaches out for the little bird, grasping for it amongst the desperate flapping of wings, but it's too high for him to reach and the rooks are too numerous, and when they finally settle in their ugly-great nests the little bird falls from its branch into Alfie's hands, the warmth beneath its feathers seeping into his frozen fingers for a moment. It's dead. 

***

He awakes far too early in a pool of freezing sweat, knowing the day won't go well. Sure enough, when he gets to his office, word has arrived that a copper in Birmingham is dead at the hands of the Peaky Blinders. That's bad news. Very bad news. What the _fuck_ is Tommy playing at? Alfie starts to dial the Small Heath number before he's even finished bellowing at the young lad who brought the news. When Tommy himself answers, Alfie stamps out the flicker of surprise in his voice. Still alive then. Thank fuck.

He's barely said two sentences when their conversation is cut off by the gormless shouting of one of those fuckwit brothers in the background. He can hear the way they roar his name, _Tomm-ay!_ and it sets Alfie's blood boiling. _You gotta come now, Tom!_ And off Tommy runs, with barely a cursory sign-off, leaving Alfie sat with his head in his hands and a weight in his chest that's becoming too fuckin' familiar.

He rings back the following afternoon, but this time it's Lizzie who answers. She tries to convince him that Tommy isn't there, despite the fact that Alfie quite clearly heard his distinctive cough in the background. When she finally agrees to put Tommy on the line, he sounds a mess. Turns out he's killed three Italians today, one at point blank range. When he speaks it's so low that Alfie strains to hear it and the words themselves are too honest.

"He looked at me, Alfie. Right before I... "

Whether his voice is shaking for those he'd missed or those he'd hit Alfie isn't sure, but he can hazard a guess it's the latter. And that's the thing innit? Tommy might be the king, back in his kingdom, but they ain't the young men they once was. Neither of 'em. They can't wash off the blood and the gore so easily.

No one up there knows how much Tommy needs someone else to take the reigns. Just for a while. All they see is the horseman, innit? Parasites, the lot of 'em.

There's not much Alfie can do from Camden though, is there? Tommy's got a plan and those usually work out eventually—granted they often involve some monumental fuck-up along the way and significant collateral damage—but the man himself tends to walk out, if not unscathed exactly, then at least undead. If it was down to Tommy alone, Alfie'd trust him to deal with this. But he doesn't trust that nest of vipers Tommy calls family and he does _not_ trust the Italians. He hopes to fuck that Tommy ain't his own collateral damage.

He takes a deep breath, he can't believe he's about to say this. "So, thought I might bring Goliath up. Meet your young pretender."

"To Small Heath?" Tommy says. He sounds hesitant, like he doesn't believe what he's hearing.

"Well, yeah, unless you've transplanted yourself to somewhere more hospitable, mate. Guess it'll have to be."

There's no response at the other end of the line, which Alfie takes as agreement. "Tuesday, then," he says, cursing how soft his voice sounds.

"Tuesday," Tommy repeats. They both hang up.

***

It's one thing being aware of a man's lowly start in life, but quite another being confronted with the putrid reality of it. He's sitting in Tommy's office, waiting for the man himself to return with an agreement for this boxing match. It feels like an oasis compared to the cesspit outside. Granted, it's a very dark, heavy, smothering type of oasis, but desperate times and all that. During the course of the day he's seen Tommy's distillery, met his fighter and perused enough of the local area to conclude that Small Heath is, quite literally, a sewer. I mean it's not like Alfie ain't disparaged the place often enough, called it a shit hole and other suitably derogatory terms, it's just that he never realised that he was actually insulting outdoor latrines when he did so. Because fucking _hell_. If Charlie was his kid (which yeah, scratch that... weird thought) he would have to be bloody terrified to bring him back to this place. 

The clock ticks and the sun lowers outside the slatted blinds, and still there is no sign of Tommy. Alfie finds himself venturing back outside, almost like a kid drawn to a dead bird, unable to resist the urge to poke and prod and savour the curious pleasure of being revolted. It's not like he grew up any better. The over-crowded Jewish ghetto community could hardly be described as salubrious, it's just that seeing Tommy in this depressing hell-hole is sobering in a way he hadn't anticipated. It awakens a slumbering possessiveness that threatens to tip over into protectiveness if not kept in check.

He recognises Finn walking towards him after a few moments of taking in the air. "Mr Solomons, Tommy's been delayed. He'll be here in five minutes," the lad says.

"Will he now?" Alfie answers. "And where might his majesty be in the meantime?"

"He's finishing up some family business."

"Right," Alfie says, setting off at a slow pace in the direction of Watery Lane. It's not that his leg or back are giving him jip, it's more that he isn't sure what he's walking into. Or why. But he feels compelled to do it anyway. 

"Mr Solomons," Finn repeats nervously, "Tommy said to wait here."

"Did he now?" Alfie says, without slowing a step. The lad matches his stride and fidgets beside him but doesn't say anything else.

As they turn the corner into Watery Lane Alfie is briefly concerned, because all the houses look the bleedin' same don't they? Like a row of defiled, soot-covered paper-dolls with black-window eyes. Lord knows which one Tommy strode out of this morning when they first met; Alfie had been too busy swallowing back the urge to gag to take too much notice. The worry is short lived, however, because he can hear Tommy yelling from the top of the street. Seconds later Arthur flies out of what can only be the correct door, in a flurry of rage and spittle. Alfie braces himself for at least a verbal attack, but Arthur's eyes barely skate over him before landing with fury on Finn,

"...the fuck d'you bring him 'ere for? Eh? What the fuck is he doing at our house?"

Whilst Finn grapples for a suitable answer, Alfie walks straight through the front door and into... pandemonium. _Fuck me_. He strolls through the first dingy room and into what appears to be a parlour-come-gambling den. It reminds him of the best days in the ghetto; too many bodies crammed between crumbling walls; the sound of screeching children, sheets billowing beyond the grimy windows. No one seems to notice him enter. No one's noticed that whatever's cooking on the stove is clearly burning to fuck either, because all eyes are trained on Tommy and some banshee of a woman who's yelling at him from the corner.

"You'll damn well stay here, Esme. With your fucking _husband_!" Tommy yells at her back. She flies up a set of decrepit-looking stairs.

Tommy's shoulders are heaving; his breath is ragged. Fear and fury are written all over his face in a way Alfie has rarely seen. Ada tries to calm him, but he shrugs off her hand and turns to yell at John instead.

"Get your fuckin' wife in line," he growls, "before she gets someone killed." Then he turns around and kicks a wooden chest full-force before disappearing out the back door. 

"Dear, dear, dear," Alfie tuts to the remaining faces. "Trouble in paradise?"

A swarm of eyes locks onto him in an amusingly varied array of expressions. Lizzie stares daggers at him; Johnny Dogs looks vaguely amused. Several children gawk open-mouthed (where did they even come from) and Polly... if her eyes roll any higher in their sockets they'll end up on the roof. Alfie walks past all of them, past John who is cursing and kicking the floor, past Uncle Charlie and Ada and Curly and finally past the burning pan of what was, presumably, dinner.

_Jesus Christ this is all we need... no tea is not ready... go back out and play... the fuck let him in? No one is going to kill anyone, Martha... he's a friend of Uncle Tommy's, now scoot..._

When he gets to the back door John puts one arm out and grips Alfie's bicep, as if to stop him going any further. Alfie drags his gaze slowly up to meet John's dull eyes. "Someone might wanna turn that pan off," he says, without looking away, "unless of course you're planning to do the world a favour and let this shit-hole burn." John reaches for his gun at that, prompting Ada to hiss at him. 

"For fucks sake, John, let him past. Someone's got to calm Tommy down."

When he makes it through to the back yard (alley? fuck knows what you'd call it) he finds Tommy leaning against the wall, his forehead pressed against the bricks. Alfie puts his hand up gently to touch Tommy's shoulder, echoing the way Tommy touched him earlier, when he tried to shoot the starlings at the distillery. Tommy flinches and snaps round, agitation rolling off him in waves. If he's surprised to find Alfie here, in his own back yard, then he schools his features quickly. Everything about Tommy looks so familiar, and yet... not. The setting changes everything. It's like finding the kid you befriended in the school holidays unexpectedly in class on the first day of term. Neither of you needs to say it, but you both know the rules have changed; that the friendship you nurtured in the humid, lawless days of summer is unacceptable here.

They stare at each other for too long, Alfie fighting a quiet awe that this is where Tommy comes from. That this family is his to run. That something so beautiful rose out of such filth. It's the first time they've been alone all day and there's so much he needs to say, but for once he is struck dumb. He tries to muster some pithy insult, some egotistical annoyance at being kept waiting... but he can't. In the end it's Tommy who speaks.

"You were meant to wait at the office, Alfie."

"And miss the fucking show?"

"Did you pack an overnight bag?"

"No," he answers. A bag swings clearly from one shoulder. 

"Pity."

"Is it?"

"Yeah," Tommy sighs. He reaches into his pocket for cigarettes and takes one out to light. 

"She wants me to marry Lizzie," he says, nodding towards the house.

It may have been a calculated move on Tommy's part, but the words burst in Alfie, like something has buried itself inside him and is tearing its way out with teeth and claws and scant regard for his heart.

Tommy stares at him silently, blowing smoke slowly into the sky. His face is a mask of disinterest, which is an absolute fucking lie.

"Okay," Alfie smiles, an angry, lopsided grin creeping across his face at the challenge that's clearly been laid. "Okay, I'll fucking stay, Tom. But not in some swanky hotel. I ain't too good for the smoke and the shit. I'll stay here. Here, in this house." 

Tommy raises his eyebrows and barely nods in acceptance, before striding back into the dingy house and the remnants of the argument. Alfie follows at a distance, watching as the assembled family scatters around its chief. To Alfie their movements are fathomless; as inexplicable as rooks at dusk erupting into the sky. He'll never understand their patterns and rituals, the thunderous flapping of wings that accompanies every drama, but he'll be damned if he'll let them have Tommy. If he'll let them peck him to death. He'll stay in this fucking house alright, and he'll make his little bird sing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me, this is unbeta'd (time is very hard to come by and I wanted to get it out).
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: mintjamsblog


	3. Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hours later Tommy’s still awake, staring at the dark, striped walls, thinking of all the years that were spent crammed into this one bed: top to tail; arse to elbow; too many limbs and not enough blankets and yet, somehow, sleep had seemed so much easier then. Despite Arthur's snoring and John's complaining and his own relentless fidgeting. He can hear Arthur’s beer-soaked voice even now: you move again and I'll break your fuckin' ribs, Tom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the warnings at the end of this chapter if you prefer to know what's coming. I didn't put everything in the tags because, for those of you that like an element of surprise/suspense when reading, I know it is sometimes frustrating (like someone's told you the ending of a novel before you've finished reading it!) So that's my reasoning. Jump to the end notes if you really want to know.

The sun has already set by the time Tommy is leaning against the fireplace, waiting for the kettle to boil. Charlie sits in front of him, swinging his feet repeatedly at the table with a rhythmic thudding noise that taps at Tommy's skull, like water dripping from a tunnel roof.

"Finish your milk, Charlie," he says, for the third time, rubbing his temples in an effort not to yell.

Charlie hugs his stuffed horse and glares. "It’s not sweet."

"Just drink it, Charlie. It's time for bed."

"Alfie lets me have honey."

Tommy ignores the comment, together with the incredulous snort that comes from the far end of the table where Polly is sitting, legs-crossed, sipping tea.

“What?” says Charlie, turning to pout at his great aunt. “He does!"

"Don't backchat," Tommy snaps.

Polly raises her eyebrows. "That man's a great influence all round I see." 

Tommy grinds his teeth together and doesn't rise to the bait. He's still fizzing with unreleased energy from the row with Esme (and John and Arthur). The last thing he needs is an argument with Polly as well. There are already far too many risks. Too many inputs. Too many people to manage. 

"When can I see Alfie, Dad?"

The water starts to boil.

“I don’t know. Tomorrow, maybe," Tommy says, lifting a hot-water bottle from the sideboard and taking it over to the stove.

As soon as he picks up the heavy kettle, he has to put it down again; the faint tremor he’s so used to hiding flares up under the weight. He's frustrated. Impatient. Like he's primed for an explosion, but waiting for someone to light the fuse. As soon as Charlie’s in bed he can deal with the rest. With John and Esme and the fact that Alfie is upstairs, in this house, waiting for him. 

"Tommy, why don't you let me?" says Ada, appearing at his side. 

"M'fine," he says, reaching again for the kettle.

"For fuck’s sake, just go and find him,” she whispers, taking care not to let Polly hear. “I can put Charlie to bed with the others. He’ll be fine down here with his cousins.”

"I can fill a fuckin' hot-water bottle."

"Not with its bloody lid on you can’t,” she says, snatching it from his hand. “And for god's sake, put that kettle down before you scald yourself.”

A china teacup clatters loudly against its saucer, before Polly chips in from the corner. “They’re all spoiled these days, if you ask me.”

“No one did,” Tommy says under his breath.

“Charlie, say goodnight to Daddy,” Ada says, snatching the bottle from her brother’s hand.

Tommy is too strung out to fight her, he kisses the top of Charlie's head and heads out of the back door to stand in the darkened back alley. He should have gone straight up to Alfie, god knows how pissed he'll be at being kept waiting, but Tommy needs a moment of calm, just five minutes to himself. He lights a cigarette and inhales deeply, holding the smoke in his chest to subdue the swarm of tiny, beating wings that have taken up residence there. He counts the seconds… eight… nine… ten… before exhaling slowly into the sooty evening air.

It seems that even five minutes is too much to ask these days; Arthur appears within moments, kicking at the ground distractedly as if he has something to say but hasn't worked up to it yet. Whether it’s conciliatory or aggressive, Tommy isn’t sure, but neither is an attractive proposition.

"Come for a drink,” Arthur says, landing a hand on his brother's shoulder with a loud slap that jars Tommy more than it should.

"Not tonight, Arthur," Tommy mutters. He can sense the change of mood immediately—a pregnant pause in the cool evening air and a hand dropping from his shoulder.

"Cause of him?" Arthur says.

"Cause of him," Tommy agrees quietly.

Arthur’s face contorts in an angry snarl. "He's still fuckin' here, ain't he?"

Tommy looks at the upstairs window and sighs, which seems to be answer enough. Arthur turns and whips through the house like an angry breeze, slamming the front door behind him with such force it rattles the whole house. Tommy stamps out his cigarette and rubs at his eyes. This whole situation feels wrong, but there’s no point in delaying it any longer. He heads through the kitchen and up the stairs to whatever awaits him there.

***

He takes a deep breath when he reaches the bedroom, pausing to settle the nervous flickering in his stomach. He’s missed Alfie so much it’s scared him and yet now, on the brink of some time alone together, he feels strangely hesitant. He takes a deep breath, turns the knob, and walks into another realm. 

Inside the room it’s dark and still. The air is warm and heavy, not just with coal dust, but with something else that sits on Tommy’s shoulders like a physical weight. Expectation perhaps. The world outside recedes to no more than a muffled hum as he closes the door with a clunk. Before him, stretched out on the faded quilt of his childhood bed, lies Alfie—shoes kicked off, hands tucked beneath his head, an empty teacup by his right elbow. He looks tolerably at home—comfortable, even—despite the incongruous setting.

"You took your time," he grumbles, not stirring from where he's reclined. "Was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me."

"Had to put Charlie to bed," Tommy answers, which is only half untrue.

"Hmm. I lit the fire."

“Yes,” Tommy nods. He considers lighting a cigarette but opts for putting his hands in his pockets.

"Had to do something to make this hell-hole bearable. No wonder you have fuckin' nightmares, mate, growin’ up in a place like this."

Tommy looks around the familiar room and can't argue with the description. It's dark and depressing and full of memories he'd rather not dwell on, but it’s inextricably part of _him_. Alfie’s words sting like a slap.

"You didn't have to fucking stay," he snaps. “You’ll still get a room at the Midland." He hates the defensive tone of his voice—knowing that Alfie will notice—which is why he turns his back and strips out of his shirt with movements as sharp as his tongue. The old tin bath sits in front of the fire, still half-full from this morning. He leans over it gratefully, throwing stone-cold water into his face. It’s more than Small Heath’s grime that he’s washing away—it’s the look of fury in Arthur's eyes; the contempt in Alfie’s tone; the shards of sentimentality that dared him to believe that his luck might change. That Alfie would want any of _this_.

“Why _did_ you fucking-well stay then?” he asks, before drenching his head and neck again and again, drowning out the answer. Reluctantly, he straightens up to find Alfie, right behind him, draping a towel around his shoulders.

“Someone needs to make sure you don’t go getting any more stupid ideas from your family.”

“What the—?” Tommy huffs. So _that’s_ the fucking problem is it? What he said about Lizzie. He’s almost relieved. “Forget it, Alfie. It’s nothing. Just Polly's ridiculous idea.”

The problem is, they both know that the idea itself isn’t entirely ridiculous. Looked at without emotion it could even be described as a solid business proposition. Not that Tommy has any intention of marrying anyone. Ever again. He only mentioned it to goad Alfie into staying, and yet now that he's here, there’s a part of Tommy that’s hell-bent on messing it up. Like he always does. As if he can’t bloody help himself.

"Stop fucking pouting, will you?" Alfie says. "I'm _here_ because I want to be _here_."

Tommy looks out at the darkened street and wishes that were true. "This is who I am, Alfie. Everything you see.” 

There's a deep sigh behind him and then firm hands turning him round. "You smell like smoke and coal and horses," Alfie says, pulling him close and nuzzling his hair. "You’re back where you belong, eh?”

“Esme’s fucked off,” Tommy says. “Just upped and fucking left.” He hadn’t meant to bring this shit into the room with him, but it’s hard to shake off.

“Esme. She the banshee from earlier?”

Tommy snorts in agreement with Alfie's character assessment. “John’s gone to fetch her back.” He rubs at his tired eyes in an effort to push the impending headache away.

“You can't manage every damn one of 'em, Tommy. I have it on good authority they’re fuckin’ adults, right? Hard to believe of some of ‘em, I know.” 

"They never fucking listen," Tommy mutters. He's rigid. There's a burning pain lodged where his shoulder-blades meet.

“Nothing more you can do for now. Yeah? Deal with ‘em in the morning.”

Tommy finds himself leaning into Alfie’s shirt, the soft cotton and familiar smell.

“Trouble’ll still be ‘ere tomorrow. Just take a few hours off.” Alfie holds the back of Tommy’s neck and slides an arm around his waist. "I missed you, Tom," he whispers. “I fuckin’ missed you.”

Tommy exhales so deeply that whatever's been holding him upright seems to seep out with his breath. Those words are everything he wanted to hear… and yet when he presses his forehead against warm, solid muscle, he can't tell whether he's leaning in or bracing to push away.

“Look, I know, right, I _know_ the last time I might not have… handled things…” Alfie says. "Your family… the way I left. But it’s hard, right? To stand back and watch ‘em all take from you. Over and over again. To watch you run after 'em. _Let_ ‘em."

"Alfie—"

"And they 'aven't got the sense between 'em to even see it."

"Alfie, stop."

"And I’m sorry, right. I am. I know you love 'em. Need 'em. But I guess what I'm tryin' to say is that—”

"I'm opening new homes for destitute children," Tommy says. The words tumble over each other in his haste to get them out.

Alfie pauses, as if processing this strange side-step, then starts rubbing one hand over Tommy's back. "Yeah. Right. Well that's good, innit?"

"Found the first two buildings already," Tommy continues. It’s enough to know he’s been missed. He doesn’t want to hear the rest.

"Putting the world to rights, eh? Weighing some good against the bad?"

"I don't fucking know anymore." It's poor recompense for all the wrongs he's committed, and they both know that. He’s not really sure why he's bringing it up at all. 

"Well... we all need to feel good about something, love."

"I don't feel good. I don't feel fucking _anything_. I just keep seeing his eyes."

Alfie stops talking after that, just keeps rubbing Tommy's back and holding him. If he keeps rubbing, Tommy thinks, he’ll find the gaping hole inside.

"Make me feel something, Alfie" he says. "Make me feel something _real_. Something that isn't a man's life slipping away in front of me." 

Alfie shifts his weight in response, gripping the back of Tommy's neck. His thumb and fingertips squeeze hard against the tender dips behind Tommy's ears. It feels like being held in a vice, like he can't be trusted not to move or turn away. Maybe he can't. Maybe Alfie knows him too well. He twists his head instinctively, tries to shy away, but the vice tightens immediately and tilts his face upwards, holds it still, whilst his lips are stroked open by a warm, wet, velvet tongue. The softness throws him off balance—makes him stumble and moan into Alfie’s mouth.

He's grappling for purchase, pushing and pulling, forcing Alfie backwards, tugging at his belt. Tommy's hungry. And confused. And _angry_. So fucking _angry_ at Alfie. For leaving him. For not calling. For agreeing to stay the night _here_ , instead of a hotel—where they fucking-well should be— where Tommy could order whiskey sours and hide himself in the trappings of wealth. But most of all, he's angry at the tenderness. At the gentle licks of Alfie's tongue; at his heavy, soothing hands. There's a dangerous creature unfurling in Tommy, stretching its limbs and cracking its spine. He’s kept it locked away for weeks, but it’s clawing at him now, refusing to stay caged. He wonders if Alfie can see it.

"I want you to fuck me," he snarls. The creature inside is baring its teeth, demanding to be fed.

Alfie grabs him by the wrists and takes a small step back, putting space between them as if to better see. "I ain't interested in what you want, Tommy. Tell me what you _need_."

Tommy swallows thickly. _What the fuck does that mean?_ His whole life is a series of wants and other people's needs. 

Alfie repeats the question, but Tommy just drops onto the bed, determined to pull Alfie down with him. "If you don't ask, darling, you ain’t gonna get." 

"I want you to hurt me," Tommy whispers.

There’s a demon in Alfie too, he knows, and he wants it to smell blood. 

"I _need_ you to hurt me," he says, throwing Alfie's words back like crimson-covered bait.

But Alfie doesn’t grab him or push him down. Doesn't kiss or bite or grip his jaw. He stands, like a solid wall, impenetrable and unmoving. Until one hand reaches out. Slowly strokes the long hair from Tommy's forehead. Presses a feather-light kiss to his brow. And suddenly Tommy is plunging; dropping through the hole that's opened up beneath him. He's mortified. Crushed. He's mustered the courage to ask for this and now he’s being soothed. Like a child. Like he doesn’t know what he’s asking for or doesn’t really mean it. 

“Alfie, I—”

“I know, love. I heard you. I heard you loud and clear. Just… you never actually _asked_ before. Not with words.” 

Tommy feels like a kid who’s just confessed some shameful deed in the hope of absolution; now he’s being made to wait for the details of his penance. Except it isn't absolution he wants. And Alfie is no fucking priest.

He can virtually see the cogs turning and clicking in Alfie's mind, like a freshly-wound pocketwatch. Measured. Methodical. Taking his bloody time. Doesn’t he know that the room is shrinking? That the oxygen is being sucked away? If they don’t move they’ll suffocate, but apparently Alfie can’t tell. Until he can. Until he lunges forward and they're kissing again, mouths locked together, like someone's flicked a switch. This time it's hungry and fierce and animal and everything Tommy needs. Reciprocation. Validation. Proof that he’s not alone.

"Get out of these clothes and lay on that bed," Alfie says, voice calm and slow and laced with petrol. It’s the tone that turns Tommy's insides to liquid; that lights a fragile fuse. He’s already undoing his trousers, so relieved he could faint. Until Alfie opens his mouth again:

"I need your pocketknife, love.”

That request starts a distant siren wail which he chooses to ignore, egged on by the needy creature inside that stutters out an answer. He isn’t even sure if he’s said it out loud until he watches Alfie take the small, folding knife from his desk drawer and slip it into his pocket.

He loses track after that, deliberately perhaps, lays back naked on the bed and stares dumbly at the ceiling. Goosebumps prickle his skin like tiny splinters of fear, but he doesn’t cover himself or move; he lets the trepidation wash over him in ever-shallower waves, until it ebbs into something more abstract, something he observes but doesn't feel. It’s vaguely unfamiliar, like he’s looking down on himself from a distant point in time, wondering who he is. How he ended up back here. How he ever got away.

"A saner man would have asked what I wanted with the fucking knife.”

The words pull Tommy back a little, enough to notice the smell: a sharp, fresh sweetness so pungent it fills the room.

“… think that tells me everything I need to know about tonight.”

He must have closed his eyes at some point because, Alfie is standing beside the bed, looking at him with concern. 

"Have you heard a fucking word I’ve said, Tom?”

Tommy blinks in confusion. He has no fucking idea what he’s missed. The bath has been pushed up against the door, and when did that bloody happen?

“You’ve wandered off in your head, love. Need me to bring you back, hmm?” The mattress dips as Alfie sits on the edge of the small bed. There’s something unrecognisable in his hand. It looks like an obscene balsa wood carving—thin and pale—shaped like a large bent thumb.

“Ginger,” he says with a small smile, following Tommy’s gaze. “Brought it for your gin, didn't I? Sweeten it up for the Yanks. But, as it turns out, I've had a much better idea."

Tommy nods and stares at the thing, as if this all makes perfect sense, as if Alfie hasn't just shown him a carved vegetable.

“Hold the headboard. Bend your knees." 

And Tommy obeys, lulled by the sedating effect of Alfie's proximity. Something dark and dangerous is luring him under and he follows it blindly, even as Alfie is prodding and probing, pressing something in. It's hard and it’s dry and Alfie apologises briefly for the lack of lubrication. 

"Can't use any oil you see. It stops the ginger working."

Tommy closes his eyes and feels his face flush crimson. He wonders what exactly Alfie means by ‘working,’ but almost in an abstract sense, like it has nothing to do with himself or his body. The ginger feels cold and hard—a little uncomfortable, certainly—but his overriding impression is disappointment. That it isn’t more. That Alfie isn’t fucking him into the mattress already.

“You warm enough?” Alfie asks, wandering over to the bath to wash his hands.

Tommy just furrows his brow. Confusion seems to be his default setting tonight.

“No matter. You soon will be.” 

***

Alfie unhooks his braces as he shuffles onto the small bed, sliding one arm beneath Tommy’s neck as he lies down. "You can let go now, you silly boy," he says, nodding towards Tommy's hands. Tommy dutifully lets go, wrapping his right arm beneath Alfie’s left shoulder until their bodies are touching from shoulder to toe.

"Fuck I missed you," Alfie says again, and a warmth spreads through Tommy's veins like opium. 

“I missed you too,” he says. It's liberating and shameful, another sordid confession. He reaches up for Alfie's head and knots his fingers in the scruffy hair, pulling him down and kissing him deeply, savouring every sensation: the weight of Alfie’s body, the taste of tea on his lips, the pleasant warmth that's beginning to emanate from his arse. It's been too fucking long and he wants. No… he _needs._ Nothing is enough.

"Patience, darling," Alfie chides, pulling their mouths apart. He runs his fingers down Tommy's left side, raising four distinct red lines. Tommy hisses and bucks his hips. "You're gonna get what you need, sweetie. Don't you worry about that." There's a low rumble in Alfie's chest as he traces his fingers over Tommy's chest, running circles and spirals along his ribs with an irritatingly light touch. 

"What would you say if I told you I could make your arse burn without the need of a belt?"

"I'd tell you to get on and fuck me. Stop bloody messing about."

"Nah...got all night for that, love," Alfie says, caressing the side of Tommy's face.

"Stop with the bloody delicate—"

"It's a shame, really," Alfie says. "I rather enjoy laying stripes on your beautiful skin. Colours up so nicely, what with you being so pale. Tends to make you shout though, don’t it? And I'm not sure everyone here would appreciate hearing it. Pretty as I think you sound.”

Despite his growing frustration, a blush spreads down Tommy's chest and his cock stirs noticeably. He bends one knee up to rest on Alfie's thigh, as if it might cover that fact.

“This is far more discreet," Alfie says, reaching down and tapping the ginger where it protrudes from Tommy's arse. "Provided you can keep quiet, of course." 

Tommy scoffs in response. As if this little thing can hold a candle to what Alfie can do with a belt. Or a cane. He shivers at the mere thought. The warmth from the ginger is undoubtedly getting more noticeable, but it certainly isn’t painful, nowhere near enough to satisfy the dark craving for more… for worse.

Tommy reaches up to answer Alfie with a kiss, but finds himself pushed firmly back down onto the bed. For fuck’s sake. Frustration is thrumming beneath his skin, provoked further when Alfie rests his head on one hand. Looking.

"So. Your family had any other bright ideas since you’ve been here?” he says. 

“What the—?” Tommy huffs. He can’t help rolling his eyes.

“Or are they too busy runnin’ around like snot-nosed kids whilst you do all the work?”

"Alfie… It’s not like th— _ah fuuuck.”_ Oh shit, this thing is burning. Like someone's just turned the power on. He squeezes his eyes shut.

Alfie smiles delightedly and carries on. "Not like what, darling? Not like you having all the ideas? Sorting out all the problems?”

"I'm not... _fuck_ ... I'm not... sorting their—" _Jesus_ , he's underestimated this.

"Right," Alfie says, nodding sagely, as if Tommy’s just actually answered. “No, course not. I mean obviously John and Arthur are equal partners. Equal brains, equal effort. Equal share of the risk. You a fucking socialist aintcha?”

_Okay, so Alfie’s actually pissed._

“And it’s not like they just walked out of your life for well over a year and then clicked their bloody fingers, is it?”

This is probably the point at which Tommy should interject, attempt to smooth some feathers, but his attention is somewhat distracted by the growing pain between his legs. It feels increasingly like someone has lit a match down there. 

“Got you where they want you now, though. Haven’t they? Back in the smoke and the grime. At their beck an' call, day and night.”

 _It’s not like that_ , he wants to say. _They’re not taking your place_. But somewhere between that thought and his lips, defiance rears its ugly head.

“Why? You jealous?” he asks.

Alfie leans right over and clamps Tommy's free hand to the bed—the furious look on his face is alarmingly gratifying—it sends a rush of blood straight to Tommy’s cock. This is what he wanted. This is what he needs. He must be insane to provoke Alfie now, but what can he really do?

"Yes, I'm fucking jealous," Alfie says slowly. “That what you wanted? Hmm?”

Tommy can’t help the smug grin that's tugging at his lips. He tests the grip on his wrist. Solid.

“I think you like having that power. Like _wielding_ it. D’you like making me jealous?"

 _No_ , is the honest answer. No, he fucking does _not_. Jealous Alfie leads to bites and beatings with marks that last for weeks. Well… maybe there are parts of that he likes, but that wasn’t his aim tonight. Although, apparently that's the path they're heading down and he’s feeling reckless enough to follow it. He glares and tenses reflexively, and oh fucking _shit_ , that makes it worse. Much worse. His eyes roll back in his head with a groan he cannot hide.

"Speaking of power… when were you gonna tell me about the honour? Hmm? Thomas Shelby O.B.E." He enunciates the last three letters far too bloody slowly.

 _Oh here we fucking go_. He knew Alfie wouldn't like it... would mock his quest for legitimacy.

"Officer of the British Empire. Fuuuck _off_ , mate. Never had you down as a hypocrite." 

The insult makes Tommy's anger flare, he shoves against Alfie's grip, tensing up in the process, and _fucking hell it hurts_. The urge to retaliate vanishes as quickly as his arse clenches. All he can think about is breathing out slowly and trying to relax. 

"Everything alright there, Tommy? Your face is rather flushed."

The bastard looks pleased: raising his eyebrows and gazing off into the distance, as if deeply lost in thought.

"Guess a wife on your arm would look more _respectable_ , right? For a pillar of the establishment such as yourself."

"I'm not respectable," Tommy says, wincing slightly and kicking himself for it.

"You're fucking telling me!" A wicked grin slides itself onto Alfie's face. "Wondered how long it'd take. Starting to feel it now, love?”

The heat is spreading rapidly, making his tailbone ache, but he'll be damned if he's going to let Alfie know how much it hurts.

"Did you get a trip to the palace then? Get to mingle with the in-bred half-wits otherwise known as our country's great and good?"

 _Fuck,_ he can’t think, the heat is blistering, reaching its fiery fingers down both inner thighs.

"You've gone suspiciously quiet, love. Anything you wanna say? I'd get it out now, if I were you, before that root reaches its full potency. Because when it does, I very much doubt you're gonna be capable of saying much at all."

Tommy's eyes widen a little too obviously, and he stifles a panicked sound. 

"That's the thing about ginger," Alfie says. His voice is carefully casual, as if he hasn't noticed Tommy's growing distress. "It takes a while to warm up, but when it does, it's _very_ hard to ignore."

He's smiling again. The bastard.

“So best speak up now, little bird."

"Fuck you," Tommy spits, refusing to pander to the patronising tone, even as he knows he’ll live to regret it.

"Suit yourself, Thomas," Alfie says, loosening his grip on the wrist.

It takes another thirty seconds for the extent of Tommy’s torment to become clear. The pain is overwhelming in its simplicity, scorching away his defiance. He should never have underestimated Alfie. But he’s made that mistake before, hasn’t he? No doubt he will again.

The heat is so fierce that Tommy holds his breath and grits his teeth, which doesn’t help at all, only makes it worse when he finally has to exhale; his breath comes out in a long, shaky stream that he struggles—and fails—to control. Alfie tuts in mock sympathy and cups his rigid jaw.

The thing is he's not even tied down—he’s utterly complicit. That knowledge does nothing to make this better; it only increases his shame. And arousal. And _fucking hell_ …the _bastard_. Tommy has nothing to compare this to and no strategy to deal with the hateful sensation. Then Alfie strokes a hand through his hair and his vision instantly blurs; something about the intimacy of the touch pulling down his defences. It isn't just the ginger, it's the touch to his fucking head. He doesn’t let anyone touch him there, not since that wretched priest; he even recoils from Charlie's small hands anywhere near his hair. And yet when Alfie repeats the motion—running fingers firmly over his scalp—it's the perfect amount of pressure and he turns into the touch. He doesn't know when this happened, when he learned to trust this man so much. When Alfie leans down and kisses him softly, the water spills over his eyelids. It's a mortifying tell. 

"Shh love," Alfie says, thumbing it away, wiping it out of his lashes and over his furrowed brows. “You look a fucking picture. Enduring this. For me."

God, Tommy wants to kiss him. And kick him. Wants to kick himself for asking for this, for falling into this trap.

"Another twenty or thirty minutes, it'll fade away to nothing."

Tommy swallows back a startled sound. He can't take this for that long. The burn is crawling over his skin, reaching far beyond its origins in a way that is so deep and all-consuming it’s unlike anything he’s ever felt. He starts a mental calculation. What will it cost him to safeword out? To say he’s had enough?

His turmoil must be written all over his face because Alfie’s voice softens. “Don’t worry sweetheart, I’ll be right here with you. I ain’t going anywhere.”

Tommy can’t figure out if that’s a promise or a threat.

His defiance dissolves like a bridge collapsing, leaving him irritable and tearful. The pain easily outstrips anything he’s taken from Alfie before, including the cane and the belt, which seems inconceivable. How can something so small could cause such a frightful reaction? And yet here he is, gasping in agony, kicking angrily at the sheets. 

The next fifteen minutes are torture. Every movement, every breath, seems to make things substantially worse. Tommy burns, pure and simple, whilst Alfie talks him through it, strokes his face and kisses his hair and thumbs away his tears. He can’t believe how much it hurts. He starts to breathe in shallow pants that only succeed in making him light-headed and do nothing at all for the pain. He blurts out, “enough,” without even thinking, begs Alfie to take the thing out. Alfie just tuts and shushes him, puts a finger over his lips. 

“If you’re not gonna say the proper word then save your energy, love.”

As the minutes pass, Tommy tries to control his breathing, but it seems to slow everything down. Alfie’s fingers trace reverent paths through the sheen of sweat that now coats him from forehead to foot. It’s as if his entire world has shrunk to the edges of this bed or the tips of Alfie’s fingers. When his protests get too vocal Alfie kisses him hard and holds him down with a firm hand on his hip. 

"Look at you… what you'll do for me.”

It makes Tommy _want_ to take it, to give this pain to Alfie like some twisted kind of gift. He stares into a pair of dark eyes that refuse to look away and finds there's no judgement in them. No pity. Only a terrifying curiosity, as if even his darkest recesses are worthy of respect. 

Suddenly Tommy sees in return. Really _sees—_ how the years have been carved into Alfie's face, like striations in a rock. Beyond the fearsome brow and shameless lips is a truth he's never examined: the weariness, the furrowed lines; the fiery-gold of his untamed beard that hides the flecks of grey. Why has he never noticed before?

“I’ve gotcha, love,” a voice is saying, but he’s not sure which of them is speaking anymore because it all feels so fucking _inadequate_ … his pain, his pleasure… it’s not enough. _Nothing's_ enough to repay what Alfie gives.

“This is it. This is all I can give you.” The realisation as he speaks the words feels like a punch in the guts. It fills him with dismay.

“It’s more than I fuckin’ deserve,” Alfie answers.

“But it isn't. It’s not enough,” Tommy whispers, “I know that. I fucking _know_.”

Alfie just kisses the whine from his mouth and laces their fingers together.

“Who else gets to see you like this, hmm?"  
  
"No one else can see me, Alfie. They all think I'm someone else." No one else can see Alfie, either. Of that he's pretty sure. “I’d give you more if I could,” he gasps, before he’s lost control of his breath.

At its worst, the pain makes him tremble uncontrollably and cling to Alfie like a rock in a stormy sea. Alfie pulls him closer still, stifles his moans and whimpers in the soft flesh of his armpit. The irony of clinging so desperately to the person who has caused the pain is a paradox that Tommy’s frazzled mind has learnt not to question. It makes sense in some primal part of his brain, which is all that’s functioning now.

“Come with me. To Margate. I've bought myself a house.”

The suggestion comes when he’s at his lowest, fretting like a sleepy child. What is Alfie talking about? Why is he asking now? 

Alfie doesn't push for an answer, just keeps up a steady stream of words, telling Tommy he's going to retire, to find himself some peace.

"No one'll bother us there, Tom. We'll just have the beach and the sky and some dogs. I fancy a four-legged friend."

Alfie moves a hand down between Tommy’s thighs. "I know who you are," he whispers, pulling at the burning ginger root, twisting and pushing until Tommy clenches on it, releasing a new wave of heat. “Show me, Tommy, I want to see everything.”

And then he's palming at Tommy's half-hard cock, cradling his balls, stroking and rolling so gently that Tommy can barely feel it. His brain is fighting to unravel the conflicting signals from his body, to pluck the slightest strands of pleasure from amidst the searing heat. Teeth nip at his ears and jaw, like tiny electric shocks firing down the fuse of his spine, trying to dislodge him from the nook he has curled into between the mattress and Alfie’s chest. The pain is slowly met with pleasure, colliding in red-hot sparks that make Tommy writhe and clench and moan.

“Look at me, Tommy. Look at me. Take your arm off that beautiful face.”

When he does, he sees Alfie leaning over him, with eyes that are rimmed with red. He comes when Alfie tells him to, filled with a pang of remorse, sorry for everything he can’t give this man. For everything they can’t be.

“I’m sorry,” he shudders, again and again, “I’m sorry… for everything.” 

He loses himself in the following minutes—loses his grip on everything—and when he gazes out through half-closed eyes, he’s sure he can see himself. Twisted limbs in twisted sheets; a streak of pale in a soot-dark room. He's nothing. Insubstantial. A crescent moon in an inky-sea—no more than a reflection of what others want to see.

He’s somewhere between sleep and consciousness—between what he wants and what he needs—where someone is whispering urgently, but he can’t hear a bloody thing.

And then someone is shivering violently and there’s a distant whining sound…and someone is sore and hot and desperate, and someone is shaking his head. Someone is making promises that someone wants to believe… but someone knows he is lying, somehow, and someone wants to scream. Someone is whispering about trees and skies and someone is trying to listen, and someone is saying _yes_ and _yes_ and asking about a ring. And someone is saying I never… I don’t know… I love you… it doesn’t matter. And someone is saying everything back and wishing that it was true. There’s kissing and kicking and pleading and holding until someone is somehow on the floor. Someone is knocking on the bedroom door and asking if someone is alright and someone is yelling _fuck off_ in a wretched, rasping voice.

Then someone is clambering over someone and holding someone’s hands… and someone isn’t supposed to want this but someone says that he does. And someone is smearing slick from a stomach into someone’s dark insides… until someone is sinking into someone and everything goes black.

And then white. Like the heart of a glorious flame.

And then someone is suddenly back in himself, a body as well as a mind, and nothing else in the world matters except for the rolling of hips and the pain and the pleasure and the peace as he comes again. As Alfie comes. As wetness fills him like a balm.

***

When he claws himself out of the stupor, Tommy feels like a bag of sand. Heavy. Torn open. Spilling onto the bed. Alfie is curled up close behind him, scooping him back together and holding everything in with his hands. 

Hours later he’s still awake, staring at the dark, striped walls, thinking of all the years that were spent crammed into this one bed: top to tail; arse to elbow; too many limbs and not enough blankets and yet, somehow, sleep had seemed so much easier then. Despite Arthur's snoring and John's complaining and his own relentless fidgeting. He can hear Arthur’s beer-soaked voice even now: _you move again and I'll break your fuckin' ribs, Tom._

Whiskers kiss the back of his neck and bring him back to the present. He turns over slowly in Alfie’s arms until they’re facing each other. Everything is warm, damp, unfocused.

“Thought you were asleep,” he says, voice thick from lack of use.

“Nah…” Alfie answers. “Too busy listening to you thinking. S’fuckin _noisy_ , your head.”

“You should hear it when you’re not around.” 

“What're you thinkin' about?”

“Nothing," Tommy lies. "Just all the times John pissed in this bed.”

Alfie shoves him gently for that before pulling him into his chest. “Fuckin'ell. Just when this room was starting to grow on me.”

They lie in comfortable silence again. Tommy's mind meandering down gentle lanes, instead of its usual rushing.

“Margate's a good idea,” he says. “You look like you need the rest.”

“You ever look in the mirror, Tom?”

“I’ll join you. When this Italian business is done. Weekends… whenever I can.”

"Yeah," Alfie says quietly, his hands curl in Tommy's hair. "Time. Just need some time, eh?"

 _Time pulls lives apart_ Tommy thinks. Pulls people in different directions. He takes one of Alfie's hands in his own and holds on. Holds back. Doesn't hold back. "I love you," he whispers.

"I know."

He wants to crawl under Alfie’s skin, to wrap his hands around naked ribs and be held there—inside—where it’s wet and warm and nothing else can reach him.

The house creaks and sighs around them, exhaling the heat of its fading fires. Every sound's as familiar to Tommy as the cracking of his own knuckles. The night draws down around Watery Lane; the fires sputter, the furnaces cease. Their little room returns to black, but Tommy dreams in colour. Of blue skies and tall trees. A deep green sea and a freezing beach. Flecks of grey amidst the gold. He wakes with his face in Alfie's palms and his heart clasped in his fist.

***

"I hate to wake you, little bird, but there's something up downstairs." 

Tommy can sense the panic through the floorboards as he stumbles to his feet.

"Where is he? Where the fuck is he?" Arthur's baritone is strangled as it trumpets through the house.

Tommy's barely lit a cigarette when there's hammering at the door. Arthur isn't waiting to be answered he's already shouldering his way in, dislodging the tub with a sudden jolt that sloshes water everywhere. Tommy shudders in the splash of cold and turns to check Alfie's state of dress. He's still beneath the tangled sheets, hauling himself up against the wall.

"House better be burning down," Alfie mutters with an ill-tempered glare.

And then Arthur is standing in the doorway, eyes wide with red-hot fury. "This is on you, you fucking cunt," he yells towards the bed.

"Slow down, brother," Tommy says, concerned enough to overlook the provocation.

“John is dead," Arthur says. "They killed our little brother."

Tommy feels like someone's ripped the skin from half his body.

"On his own fuckin' doorstep, Tom." Arthur's collapsing in front of him, face a ragged mess. He isn't looking at Tommy anymore, he's looking at Tommy's bed. 

“This is your fault, Solomons. If you hadn’t _fucking_ been here…” He turns back to Tommy and jabs his chest. “You and I, we’d have stopped this, Tom, we'd have brought John home last night.”

And then Arthur whirls out of the door and Tommy is left there, staring, with his toes sinking into cinders; he expects to see ashes on the floor, in place of the threadbare rug. There's a warm hand resting on his back, reminding him that he's real. He listens to the house as it slowly adjusts to the shock that's burning through it. Silence gives way to gasps and bangs and kettles and competent voices... and then returns to cloak the house, but weighted differently now, holding itself much tighter.

"You want me to stay or go, Tom?" Alfie asks tentatively.

Tommy pulls his clothes on without looking round. It's enough to feel Alfie's concern in the air, if he has to _face_ it he'll crumble. He feels insubstantial. Like he's looking down on himself from a distant point in time. Wondering who he is, how he ended up back here. How he ever got away.

"I have to go," is all he says. He doesn't dare look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tagging for major character death (canon), consensual dom/sub dynamic and breaking my own heart. Sorry.
> 
> And thank you for waiting whilst I wrestled far too much with this chapter. God, how it's given me grief. Some chapters just seem destined to do that, and this was certainly one of them. And it's long, even after I edited, (so much for balanced chapters..?!) Sorry. I hope it suffices.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: mintjamsblog


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note for anyone following this series: I decided to make Chapter 4 of Burnt into a separate fic in its own right (it was getting out of hand). I have just posted, it's called Castles.

Just hoping to catch anyone who has subscribed to this and might miss the update. Probably poor form. I don't know. Sorry!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Happy Easter!
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: mintjamsblog


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